


Footsoldiers on Uneven Ground

by minxy



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen, Teal'c backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-30
Updated: 2006-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minxy/pseuds/minxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woman he was looking for would not be among the revelers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footsoldiers on Uneven Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [](http://rydra-wong.livejournal.com/profile)[**rydra_wong**](http://rydra-wong.livejournal.com/) , who is wonderful.

  
The evening was warm. A bonfire in the center of the clearing had burned down, but was maintained for the light it cast. Children played nearby, in a game of movements looping in and around each other. Their guardians made the next circle of people, expressions harder to gauge, intentions concealed in the places hollowed out by the absence of light.

Bra’tac walked into his shadow. The heat on his back had faded into the warmth of the evening long before the edges of his shadow blurred into the night.

The woman Bra’tac was looking for would not be among the revelers.

“Well met, First Prime of Apophis,” she greeted him as he approached in quiet steps through the edges of the treeline.

“I am no such thing,” he told her with a smile in his voice he did not bother to suppress, falling into place at her side, watching the group of children rough-house by the fire, “It is some other suitor you expect this night, perhaps?”

She turned and smiled at him, not bothering to reply. Tall, so that she looked him in the eye without tilting her head. In the dusk of the summer evening, she was a polished wood doll, but Bra’tac knew better than to think of her that way for more than half a thought. As she turned back toward the children’s shouts, the last fingers of firelight glinted in a dull red crown in her hair, and cast shadows under her cheekbones.

“Well met, Lady.” He spoke the ritual words to have something to say.

“And I,” she said, “Am no lady, as you well know, Bra’tac.”

“You could be,” he said, dropping his chin as he offered the words. “So many things would be better, Mehr’auc.”

“And so many lost, Bra’tac. You would truly never be first prime with me in your house.”

“It would be an honor, not a hardship.” He did not say that it was high time a man his age considered marrying; she had countered that before. He did not say that his God would approve in spirit, as the tactic had proved ineffective.

“Honor for me, hardship for you.”

“A privilege, Lady, and a small sacrifice for your health and that of your boy.” They were merely circling each other in a well-rehearsed dance now.

The boy in question chose that moment to give a great shout from within his game with the other children, and leap on gangly legs after the girl who had taken the stick from his hands. His voice drew his mother’s eyes as he chased the girl good humouredly, but there was no real concern for him, only pride. Bra’tac stepped up close to her, his shoulder behind hers as he followed her line of sight. The boy she watched was standing a few inches shorter than the girl next to him, circling her awkwardly as she turned and protected her prize. His face caught the firelight, ink on his forehead swallowing the light of the fire where his companions foreheads were unlined.

The young boy lurched ungainly around his opponent and yelped when he received an elbow in the stomach for his trouble.

“He has taken the mark of Apophis,” Bra’tac fought to hide the accusation from his voice—he was too young, and would miss the traditions of taking the mark with his peers because his mother was foreign born. She did not know what she deprived him of, having him take it early.

The woman turned at his tone, fire in her eyes. “Do you know why I brought him here, Bra’tac? For this!” He squinted at her outburst and tried to understand how setting her son apart could have been motivation for anything. He was surprised when she continued, “He has so much pride in his father.”

The two statements seemed unconnected to Bra’tac, but the second was at least manageable. “Such a thing is admirable in a boy, especially one who lost his father so young.”

“Not if he seeks revenge,” Mehr’auc suddenly looked tired, her voice losing all its previous vehemence, the shadows hollowing into her skin. “Not if he continues to lay the blame for his father’s death at the hands of the one who killed him.”

“Where else would he place it?” He spoke before he could think, before he remembered that this was not a woman failing to understand her warrior boy, before he remembered the rumor that they had come under the shadow of their former God’s displeasure, that her husband had failed and fallen at Kronos’ hand.

“Indeed,” she replied. “It is fortuitous that it may be seen in such a light on Chulak.” Her eyes settled on a boulder fallen from the cliffs behind them and rolled some ways, now half sunken into the good black soil, but safely protected from the human laborer’s disruption behind the treeline. Mehr’auc raised her gaze to his with an amused and charitable look on her face. Whether she was granting him the decision or asking for his company he wasn’t sure, but he swept an arm out inviting them both to rest regardless.

She looked tired. The firelight could not touch the dark swirls of Kronos’ emblem on her forehead, even as she sat down and turned her face back to the light.

"Mehr'auc, if you need anything while I am gone on this next campaign -" she was already turning incredulous eyes on him, but he continued anyway - "you will always find welcome if you apply to my house."

The words fell flat; they both knew that an outcast would find nothing of the sort, were he not there to insist on special treatment. But not for nothing was he called the bravest of Apophis’ warriors; he risked the welcome for her. He sat beside her and risked her hollow mocking to offer it again.

He wondered if it was, in fact, foolishness that he continued to invite her into his life, when she so clearly would not come.

“I will send Teal’c, if I may.” He glanced at her to find she was looking at him carefully. “He would also find welcome?”

“Yes.” He found himself swelling with pride that she had found a way to accept his regard, and his assistance, even if it must be by proxy. He would instruct his servants to expect a young warrior, as he would appear to be, with the black insignia already upon his brow. There would be no mention of his home in the outcast camp, or his lineage. Teal’c of Chulak would suffice.

“This campaign is against Bastet, is it not? I hear it is to be a battle of special magnificence.”

Her humor had an edge that he could not always predict, he cut his eyes sideways to read her mood as he worded his answer. “We expect to be victorious,” he agreed.

“You expect to be victorious because you have planned this campaign,” she elaborated, voicing the source of the pride he had been hesitant to express. Sometimes women were peculiar about warrior pride. “Perhaps you will be First Prime when you return. It will not be long, Bra’tac.”

“You have more ambitions for me than I think I have even for myself, woman,” he said fondly.

She sighed. “It is a burden, Bra’tac, make no mistake; however, to serve your people is worth the price.”

To serve my God, he mentally corrected, wondering at her phrasing, wondering which was the honor and which the price. It must have shown on his face, because she quietly added, “You will see,” and brought a hand up between him and the merry makers at the bonfire. He thought perhaps she would touch his face, but her fingers merely brushed the seam at the shoulder of his robe and then dropped away.

He watched her gather her dignity and turn back to the fire. “Perhaps Teal’c too will see, someday.”

“May we discuss marriage again, if I become First Prime?” He was careful to watch the fire as well as he asked, letting its light on his simple cotton robes be his only armour.

“Not even a gold emblem can protect you from the shame I carry, Bra’tac.” She was making to stand, so he stood with her and offered an arm.

“You speak of shame and honor as though they are armies, Lady, when really they are finite quantities, to be bartered and sold.” Her arm remained around his, palm resting on his forearm, fingers making grooves in the fabric of his sleeve, the pressure steady. “I would willingly lend you honor, until such time as you may regain your own.”

Mehr’auc looked at him with warmth. “We may discuss it, when you return as First Prime,” she said, but the smile faded from her face as though she were already regretting the weakness.

“I will walk you home,” Bra’tac said, dropping the subject while he had won some advantage.

“No,” she answered, as he expected, “But you may walk me to the clearing. You should not be seen at the outcast camp, Bra’tac.”

“Then I will walk you to the clearing.” He stepped her around the boulder and ignored how much she was allowing him to lead. “And you must take care of yourself, Lady, for your boy’s sake as much as for mine or your own.”

“We all have our own battles to fight, Bra’tac; this one is mine. I promise to fight it with tenacity and cunning.”

Too soon she was threading her way back into the trees, towards the clearing and the outskirts where the outcasts were permitted to make their camps. He thought wryly that he was never sure who was supporting whom or if he would ever really understand her expectations.

~end.~


End file.
